


Just Fishing

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, M/M, Magical Realism, Period-Typical Homophobia, chirping as flirting, i can't tag worth a damn, mermaid au, rating may go up as the swearing gets worse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: "It's not like The Little Mermaid, Mashkov, there's no sea witch and you ain't a prince."
Kent is a merman, and Alexei is the fisherman who catches him and throws him back.





	1. Chapter 1

The sun was bright and piercing through the open water, glittering like stars across the sandy ocean floor. California coastal waters were warm this time of year, but only near the Bay. Out in the open ocean the chill could cut like ice. It meant that only native ocean creatures would venture this far down.

Kent weaved between rocks and determined seaweed, hair streaked against his skull with the force of his speed. He felt the scrape of rock against his dorsal scales as he darted too close and away from each obstacle in his path. His form was made to glide but Kent rocketed like a dolphin, cutting through the water with the precision of a shark.

Abruptly he streaked towards the surface, hurtling towards the blinding sunlight until he shattered through the glassy ceiling into open air.

Airborne weightlessness was different from being suspended in the sea. Underwater there was always pressure from all sides. In the air, he felt as though he lacked mass completely.

The moment lasted a split second. Then he had to flail and twist himself around so when he hit the water headfirst, it didn’t knock him out.

Swoops still recounts that story of _how_ Kent learned that to anyone new who swims into their bay.

“Nice air, Parson.” Swoops was waiting for him at the ocean bottom.

Kent grinned. “Nice speed, Swoops. What were you, a minute behind me? Two?”

“You’re a damn eel at ground level, there’s no way I’m going catch you on an obstacle course.”

Kent would have retorted, but a glint of far-off scales caught his eye. “Hold it, is that a school?”

Swoops squinted into the murky distance. “Could be.”

They swam closer, low to the ground. The sunlight ahead grew dimmer and more dappled. Kent drew a breath when he saw why. “ _Whoa_. That’s a fucking shoal.”

Like a storm cloud, the hundreds of sleek tuna swirled in convoluted slow motion. Their density nearly blacked out the sun on the ocean floor below.

Kent’s stomach rumbled on cue.

“Fuck, yeah,” Swoops agreed.

They’d been fishing together long enough that they didn’t need to talk. Kent made a swirling motion with his finger and Swoops answered with a wiggle of his palm, and then they were off in separate directions, each lazily floating his way into the cloud of fish the length of Kent’s arm.

Tuna this size didn’t startle when larger creatures meandered into their shoal—unless the larger creatures made any sudden movements. Kent let the current and occasional shift of his body propel him, following the direction of the largest grouping of fish so his direction matched theirs. Merfolk did, on occasion, join shoals of other creatures for socializing and protection. Kent, Swoops, and many others in their pod did it all the time.

Of course, socializing wasn’t the _only_ reason to get close to tuna.

There was no point in grabbing them with his hands. Kent licked his teeth behind his lips and eyed the fishes darting closest to his face. The light was dimming, likely from clouds across the sun and fish that were swimming even more tightly together.

Kent searched the clouds of tuna for Swoops. At a mutual signal, they’d pounce on their respective prey. Which only worked if they were within eyesight of each other, where the actual fuck was Swoops—?

“Ship! Parson, there’s a fucking ship—”

Above Kent came the sharp crack of heavy netting hitting the water, a black cloud that billowed towards him like squid ink.

“Shit, shit, _shit—_ ”

The only way out was down. The fish swam in alarmed circles but Kent swam down. He had to get ahead of the net’s descent, get out from under it before it swallowed him alive.

He was nearly there when a swath of net caught his arm and yanked him back. Kent groaned at the pain that went through his shoulder.

“Parse!”

“Swoops!”

Below him he could see the net closing up, its bulk shrinking around him and the masses of fish caught in it, their bodies packed against him. Gritting his teeth against the burn in his joint, he yanked at the net around his wrist and elbow until he was free of it.

Swoops was still yelling for him. “Parse! Dammit, where are you?”

“Here! Swoops, here, I’m in the net!”

“Hang on!”

The net jerked and began rushing upwards.

“Any time now, Swoops!”

Kent tore at the netting with both hands, bit at it, but it was too thick to get through without a sharp edge. His heart was pounding faster than when he’d raced Swoops, faster than when he’d gone airborne. He’d fucked up, he _was_ fucked, he could see the ship’s hull and taste the dank flavor of barnacles on its bulkhead and he was _fucked_.

One second, he was underwater, and the next he was heavy as lead and buried beneath a hundred flopping tuna. He could hear the cranking of gears, men’s voices.

And then the net burst open and spilled Kent and the fish onto the ship’s deck.

Kent landed on his bad arm with a shout. Already he was looking for an out, scouring the ship’s rails—solid, high, too high—for an opening he could scurry through.

His gaze fell on boots. A man was standing not half a body length from him, wearing black boots and thick clothes and an expression of pure astonishment.

They stared at each other for several of Kent’s heartbeats before a voice from the other end of the ship startled them both.

“Mashkov! What’s the haul? Any good?”

The man swallowed. Without looking away from Kent, he shouted back, “Is good one! On small side, though. I go through, find bad ones by myself, yes?”

“What? I can’t hear you over there Mashkov.”

Both Kent and the man—Mashkov—registered the sound of boot steps at once. They moved at the same time: Kent making a mad, one-armed scramble for the ship’s edge, and Mashkov for a discarded net. Before Kent could get a hand on the rail, Mashkov flung the net over him, effectively burying him. Kent began to thrash, but stilled when the approaching boot steps became nearby vibrations on the deck.

“See?” Mashkov said to his shipmate, whom Kent couldn’t see through the thick weave of the net. “Is good catch, but small. I throw back runts, fast work.”

“By yourself?” The man sounded dubious, but not surprised by the offer.

“I don’t mind! You and the boys do heavy lifting, yes? I do this.”

“Yeah, sure.” There was the sound of a hand slapping a shoulder. “You’re a real prince, Mashkov.”

They both laughed. Then one set of boots retreated. Kent didn’t have to guess which.

While the men had talked, Kent had focused on not putting weight on his bad shoulder and keeping his breathing under control. He had a human respiratory system married with piscine gills, which resided on the sides of his throat and were currently closed up tight. Panic and pain were making Kent breathe in short gasps that were already making him a bit lightheaded.

He was about to try throwing off the net and making another break for it when the weight was gently lifted off him.

Mashkov was crouched right in front of him. Way, _way_ too close. He looked less handsome up close, his skin weathered from water and sun, and his nose had a bend to it that suggested it had been broken once, or maybe twice. His eyes were a gentle deep brown, and they were unapologetically examining every inch of Kent.

Kent stayed still and glared with all the venom he could. His tail twitched across the slick deck, where the tuna still flopped and gasped their last breaths in the open air.

When a minute passed and Mashkov didn’t move, just stared, Kent pushed himself up on his good arm, slowly shifting away from him. Mashkov’s eyes immediately went to the stiff shoulder that Kent held cradled to his body, and without any warning, he reached for it.

Kent jumped back as though stung. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he warned, keeping his voice low.

Mashkov’s hand stilled. “You’re hurt?”

“It’s nothing.”

Mashkov huffed. “Look like dislocated shoulder, to me. You not swim like that.”

“Put me back in the water, I’ll show you how well I swim.”

“You not swim that way.”

Kent swallowed against dry gills. “Please just let me go.” He hated how small his voice sounded.

Mashkov’s eyes and voice softened. “Alright.” He stepped back. “I have to lift you over side. Is okay?”

Kent nodded. Mashkov bent and gathered him up, one arm under Kent’s tail and the other around his waist. Despite the cold open air and the thickness of the fisherman’s clothes, Kent could feel the heat of him, and smell the ocean salt layered over human sweat and warm skin through Mashkov’s open shirt collar.

Kent wasn’t light, but Mashkov carried him to the railing without any visible strain.

“You’re fucking strong, aren’t you,” Kent muttered, and felt Mashkov’s laughter where he was pressed against his chest.

At the thick wooden rail, Mashkov began to lift him onto it, and then hesitated. “Is high. You not get hurt, falling into water?”

“Nah, I’ll be great. I do this all the time. Just don’t drop me in on my head.”

“Is pretty head, I not do that.” Mashkov hefted him onto the rail’s thick edge. Kent could hear the crash of waves against the hull. His skin felt tight and dry, his throat parched.

But before Mashkov could shove him over, Kent grabbed the man’s shirt and met his eyes. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Mashkov nodded. Kent released his grip, and then Mashkov released his.

Kent hit the water on his side. It hurt. Not as bad as his shoulder, though.

“Fuck,” he shouted through a burst of expelled air. He twisted around and swam away from the shadow of the ship behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, Kent found the ship again.

It was, unsurprisingly, not easy to find one finishing boat in the entire vast ocean around southern California. Kent stalked the weathered underbellies of many wooden ships passing through his waters and those that surrounded the San Francisco Bay area. The trick was getting close enough to the Bay to note the ships that came and went, without getting so close that he got caught in the webs of fishing nets that were left strung about. He stuck to the kelp forests, since few boats or nets ventured there, and kept his head low as he scanned the people on the decks, looking for broad shoulders and wind-tousled brown hair.

He found Mashkov's boat by accident, on his way in towards the Bay. The sun was still low, having just barely slipped above the horizon, and both the sky and the ocean were tinted early dawn's muzzy orange-green. Kent nearly missed the shadow of the ship as he swam along the ocean bottom.

He put some distance between himself and the vessel and breached carefully, letting only his head rise above the surface. He brushed the hair from his eyes and squinted. It was hard to see the faces of the men on the boat from so far away in such dim light. None of their shapes looked familiar. The ship's dark wood and high sides, however, made him cock his head and consider.

There was really only one way to be sure.

He submerged and got close, this time surfacing near to the ship's undulating underbelly so that he almost blended in with its shadow. He listened for voices, now. In the last week he'd discovered that there were an _awful_ lot of Russian fishermen in California. None had been the one he was looking for.

The ship above was fairly quiet. Its sails had been secured and its course set; it was moving along slowly, pushing wavelets and stray kelp out of its path as it headed out to sea. Kent drifted away from stern and along its body, still staying low. The ship's deck was loaded with large buckets, long swaths of carefully stored netting, empty crates, and an emergency dinghy. Endless rope was strung about its sides and sails like cobwebs.

"Oi!"

Kent ducked under and went still. Nothing followed; no net, no spear. He looked up through the water, where the boat's shadow let him see silhouettes above, and saw two men leaning against the rail.

Keeping in the boat’s shadow, he surfaced just enough to listen.

"--not weak American piss, Snowy, I worry it too much for you."

"I'm fuckin' IRISH, Mashkov, it'd take more than your Russian water to put me down--"

"Give me cigarette, I give you vodka. And my prayers."

"Yeah, here's your fag. Fuck your prayers."

There was silence for a minute. Smoke blew overhead.

"Cigarette you give me is shit taste, Snowy."

A cough, and then, "Fucking coffin varnish, Mashkov, did you cook this yourself? If you're going to keep a flask, at least keep something _good_."

"Is okay admit you can't handle, Snowy. Still have looks. Your wife marry you, yes?"

Good-natured laughter followed. "Fuck you, Tater," Snowy replied, and Kent heard the soft smack of a hand on a shoulder before retreating footsteps.

Kent ventured away from the ship. He smelled the cigarette before he saw Mashkov, leaning over the rail with one hand hanging in the air while the other held the smoke to his lips. His gaze was on the horizon, not the ocean below, and so he didn't notice the movement of Kent sliding into view. Kent's memory of him proved accurate: sun-weathered face, wind-swept hair, work-rough hands. The man was a giant, low angle or no, and even in a poor man's work shirt, galoshes, and coveralls, he had the patient air of a gentleman with nothing but time.

With his tail propelling him along to keep up with the ship, Kent cupped his hands around his mouth and hissed, "Hey!"

Mashkov looked back over his shoulder.

"No, down here! Hey!"

Mashkov's gaze dropped to the water and his eyes went wide, then crinkled with pleasure. He checked behind him again for listeners and leaned forward. "Hello."

Mashkov was grinning and Kent found himself doing the same. "Hi."

"How is your arm?"

Kent's eyebrows climbed. THAT was what he wanted to know? "Fine. Friend of mine popped it back in." He rolled the shoulder in demonstration and only winced a little. "Not the first time I've dislocated something. Won't be the last."

"DIS-locate," Mashkov muttered to himself, and then asked, "Your life is very dangerous?"

"Sometimes.”

Mashkov nodded. The cigarette was still burning between his fingers, ash dropping into the water. "I am happy see you again. Glad you are okay."

Kent swished his tail and rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug. "I wouldn't be, if you hadn't. You know. Put me back. Thanks for that."

"Is no thanks needed, but you're welcome--" He looked over his shoulder then, the motion appearing casual, but Kent sank low in the water just in case. When Mashkov turned back, he took a drag on his cigarette and spoke even more quietly, so that Kent had to move closer to hear. "It’s not safe, you being here."

"Yeah, I know." Kent slicked a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to say thanks, again." He shifted back from the boat but balked at swimming away. Mashkov was still watching him, the fag in his hand forgotten again, his eyes interested and his smile wondering, like Kent was something marvelous.

Although, having a tail instead of legs would evoke that sort of response in anyone.

"What are you fishing today?" Kent asked.

"We probably stay in the bay, so, bass and perch, if we find. Season good for salmon and tuna, many restaurant and housewife are buying. Why, you trying steal my catch again?" Mashkov's grin was so wide he was getting dimples.

"You had a GREAT catch, Mashkov, you just threw me back."

"I threw back little fish, is no good. But now little fish is follow me around, razz me while I’m trying to have break."

Kent couldn't stop the snort of amusement. "And here I was thinking of helping you out when you dropped your nets."

Mashkov's expression sobered. "Is not dangerous for you? Get caught again?"

"You took me by surprise. You won't get me twice." Kent shimmied closer so Mashkov had to look directly down. He liked watching Mashkov's gaze follow him. "Do you want my help or not?"

\--

Kent could not, in fact, help the ship out all by himself. He was fast but fish were faster, at least in terms of maneuverability. He was never going to make any real difference in a day's catch on his own.

Which was why Kent was recruiting Candy and Swoops.

Or trying, at least.

"No," Swoops said. "Absolutely not. This is a bonehead idea."

"Not if we coordinate," Kent argued. "I'm not saying we swim directly in the path of the nets, I'm not stupid--"

"Debatable."

"--we just keep the shoal from schooling AWAY from the net, so when it drops, they get a bigger catch. Swoops, come on, the man saved my ass." Kent wasn't above undignified pleading, especially since Swoops wasn't above relenting to it.

Candy was looking between them with hopeful eyes. Candy was nineteen and the kind of kid who liked pulling on the tails of passing sharks. Candy would be up for any stunt that Kent Parson was pulling, especially if Swoops was going along with it, too.

Swoops groaned. "Oh, fine. We help with _one_ catch, and that's IT.”

It came down to this: they had to find a shoal within the boat’s vicinity, one that was close enough that they could lead the boat there without anyone on board actually knowing they were being lead. Swoops and Candy followed Kent back to the boat and then scattered in all directions on the hunt. The ship dropped its nets twice while they searched, bringing in what looked like—from Kent’s view—a modest but not impressive catch.

When Kent and Candy finally did locate a circling shoal of bass, the sun was high enough to make the fishes’ banded bodies glimmer in the sun. Kent snagged one of them for himself and Candy before even thinking about how to get the boat there.

"Okay," Candy said, mid-bite, "on the level. Do you like fish better cooked or raw?"

Kent swallowed the skin and muscle in his mouth. "Cooked how? Are we talking just cooked, or with all the trimmings? Because I'll take it either way plain, but I could probably eat at that specialty diner in town every day until I was dead."

Candy nodded vigorously. He'd taken the half of the fish with the head, which Kent didn't understand because the tail end was inarguably better, but there was no accounting for youth and taste. The kid would learn. "See, that's what I'm talking about! I don't get why everyone--well, not everyone, but like a lot of the older guys?—says it's better just to stay in the sea, always. They're missing out on everything!" He took another bite and talked around it. "How often do you go up?"

"Few times a year, maybe," Kent said non-committedly. "Just to see the sights, have some fun."

"I want to go to New York City for New Years," Candy said. He grinned sheepishly when Kent looked at him in surprise. "I know it's far away, and even if I swim East first, it's risky, but. I always wanted to see Times Square. I think if I can try, I should. Right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you should." Kent ruffled his hair to make him smile. "What's life without taking some risks?"

"Right!" Candy tossed away the mangled skeleton of his sea bass. "So what's your plan?"

Kent explained.

Candy frowned. “They’re not going to see the shoal from this distance. They won’t believe it’s here, even if one of their men says he sees it.”

Kent waved a hand. “You have a better idea?”

Candy looked around. With the speed of a shark, he snatched one of the fish swimming near them and held it while it thrashed around. After a minute, he let it go, where it sped off to join its schoolmates.

Kent knew he was giving Candy a look of utter befuddlement. “You gonna explain why you just did that?”

Candy grinned. "You think Swoops would be up for a game of catch?"

**Author's Note:**

> join me in rarepair hell on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


End file.
